A friendly warning
by BBCRULES
Summary: After-story of "Turn Left". Lestrade stays at Mycroft's for the time being. One day, he gets a friendly warning from Sherlock. Mycroft takes action after his teatime with her Majesty. The life after reunion cannot be always "lived happlily ever after" failry tale. Thanks for reading and comments are very welcome:)
1. Chapter 1

After-story of "Turn Left", but it can be read alone. Thanks for reading. Comments are very welcome. This doesn't intend to insult any drama mentioned here.

Previously,

_Sebastian Moran kidnapped Lestrade when he couldn't find John Watson. Moran detonated bomb in the pool. The DI was rescued 18 hours after he got trapped in the collapsing building. Afterwards, he divorced his wife. The couple had to sell their house to split the money and Lestrade needed a place to live temporarily. Mycroft, for his guilt that he had failed to protect Sherlock's friends from Moran, had offered his guest room for the time being. Two month passed since everybody had a birthday-and-welcome-back party for Sherlock and Greg._

* * *

Greg Lestrade didn't miss any of his rehabilitation programs: physiotherapy and counseling. He wanted to go back to his job as fast as possible. He wasn't a workaholic but he was too used to an unpredictable life at crime scenes. Also, he hoped to move out from Mycroft's: he didn't want to overstay welcome from the older Holmes.

It didn't mean that his life at the Holmes manor wasn't comfortable. There were staff who cleaned and cooked. Mycroft wasn't usually at home. Sometimes, the older Holmes would leave for Vientiene or Washington D.C. Internal affairs always overwhelmed Mycroft after his business trip. Greg tried little chitchat yet it wasn't possible to talk with him with the mobile vibrating and computer beeping for incoming texts or e-mails every two minutes.

"There's a huge backlog of work to take care of. Sorry,"

The older Holmes said apologetically after he noticed a look of disappointment. Excluding a couple of staff for cooking or cleaning, Lestrade was usually alone in the house. After two months, he missed the Yarders, the noisy pub, his aggressive ex-wife or even arrogant Sherlock. In addition, the DI could feel that Mycroft repelled everyone with an exception of his little brother and possibly his assistant, Anthea.

* * *

One day, on his way out after one-hour counseling, Lestrade found a familiar cheeky pale face in the hospital lobby.

_Was there a murder or a suspicious death in the premise of the hospital?_

He wondered, and noticed John's absence. The detective grinned and waved his hand. Lestrade smiled because he really missed a human interaction: an interaction with Sherlock could be unpleasant, but he didn't care.

"What's up, Sherlock? Where's John?"

Lestrade asked inquisitively.

"John's attending a medical seminar here. I've gotten one hour or so until he finishes."

The next words from the detective made the DI doubt his ears.

"It had been two months since I saw you last time. I thought I'd say hi to Greg, my old pal."

With a look of shock, Lestrade stuttered,

"It's... it's... Well, Sherlock, what's wrong with you? You remembered my name!"

At his words, the detective overreacted with a puppy face and a big hand gesture as though he was pleading,

"Your words hurt me! I "care" about you."

_Care_?

Lestrade wondered what Sherlock was up to. Sherlock waved a nicotine patch and gave it to him.

"You look exhausted. Here, a nicotine patch."

"You had stopped..."

"John doesn't know. The only comfort while I was away…"

It shut Lestrade's mouth up right away: he owed Sherlock a big one. Turning around, the detective suggested,

"Shall we go to café downstairs? How about coffee?"

Lestrade stared blankly at the billowing coat of the detective before he followed suit.

Today his therapist made him talk about his ex-wife and the failed marriage. The session didn't go well. Worn out, Greg dropped into a plastic chair and applied the patch on his left arm. Ignoring some stares from a few hospital staff, Greg leaned to the chair and groaned. Sherlock came back with a tray of two coffee cups.

"Well, here you are. A latte."

Lestrade wiped sweats off his face and asked,

"Thanks. Now tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"What are you doing here? I don't think you are genuinely interested in my condition."

Sherlock protested in a mock disappointment.

"I am a better person than that, Lestrade."

He drank a few sips while urging Lestrade to drink his. The latte was good and filling. With a mischievous grin, the detective asked,

"I'm here to ease your living-together with my brother. How's it? Hellish, I imagine?"

Lestrade considered it for a moment and then answered cautiously,

"No… It's…quiet and noneventful. Actually we barely see each other."

"Have you noticed something weird? Him? Anything in the house?"

"Oh, I noticed that the small refrigerator in his study is "locked". I tried to open it…and…"

Sherlock was grinning.

"I heard your voice from the refrigerator."Don't, Mycroft." What the hell does it mean?"

"Uh, you'll learn in due time. My brother seems to have concealed his true self from you."

Image of the "British Government" fleeted across the DI's mind. Feeling uncomfortable, he fidgeted and sipped his latte again. Sherlock observed Greg's face intently.

"Ha, Mycroft has been ignoring you completely. Your life has never been so boring, right? How rude!"

Lestrade wondered if his face had been so obvious. Well, it's Sherlock. He could "observe" what no one didn't.

"Here is something that you may need. I should have given this to you two months ago."

Sherlock slid an envelope towards Lestrade and glanced at his watch. He stood up and said apologetically,

"Uggh, milk. John will not forgive me if I forget again. Lestrade. It was nice to see you well. Good luck."

The dark coat fleeted away. Lestrade stared at the envelope, trying to understand the meaning of "Good Luck." He pocketed the envelope and decided to visit the Yard. He was welcomed with applaud and whistling from the Yarders. Everybody wanted to know when the DI could get back to work. He hadn't realized how wonderful it was to talk and laugh with his colleagues. On the way back to the manor, he remembered the envelope and opened it. A sheet of paper. It said:

* * *

For your survival at Holmes manor:

(1) Mycroft has three portraits of the "Queens – two Elizabeth(I, II) and Victoria" in the sitting room. Don't touch them. You can activate a burglar alarm by mistake.

Uggh, you already did, didn't you?

(2) Mycroft's definition of entertainment is very limited. Three quarters of his day are devoted to work. However, even my brother needs a rest. My brother's obsessed with "assassination" of a political figure. You can boost him up with movies like _JFK_ or _Collateral_.

(3) Mycroft is an excellent companion when you exercise. There is a small gym in the basement. The gym equipments are decade-old models yet still as good as new. Ask Mycroft to run on the treadmill together. He will be secretly pleased if you ask.

(4) Mycroft can always find ten minutes to sit together if he's served a smothered chocolate cake. Chocolate Chip Cookie Sunday ice cream does the magic, too. If there is any left-over, though I doubt it, keep it in the kitchen refrigerator that has no lock.

(5) He has an obsession on black brollys. He keeps five at home. Don't borrow it even when it rains cats and dogs. It's better to get soaked wet to the bone than to put Mycroft into a panic mode from a potential "unavailability" of the brolly.

(6) Like me, Mycroft is a smoker but he doesn't like nicotine patches. He smokes a couple Embassy cigarettes every day. For his health, I suggest you replace all the Embassy cigarettes with low-tar ones. He'll appreciate your gesture. There is one more thing to remember. Mycroft collects ashtrays. From time to time, just get a new one for him and put it in a place that he will notice. That will brighten him up.

(7) For your own sanity, I suggest you avoid topics like the proper role of U.K. government in European Union, the global financial crisis, and nuclear proliferation. You have been warned. If you let it slip, then change the topic instantly to some BBC dramas like Downton Abbey or Doctor Who. The former will put him to sleep right away and the latter will shut him up because he always has to rewatch the series when he hears the name, "Doctor Who."

* * *

Some of his questions had the answers written here. He looked at the slant handwriting of Sherlock. The burglar alarm… he was just trying to straighten up the picture of the Queen Victoria that was hung askew on the wall. Ms. Parson, the cook, ran into the room and disabled the alarm with a few buttons. Ever since he had stayed away from the sitting room. Lestrade couldn't help but to agree to the last one: he almost dozed off while listening to Mycroft's ranting about government's role for three hours: that was the only time that the DI and the older Holmes sat together over tea. If he had known these tips, his life would've been better. Mycroft was coming home today from his weeklong business trip to Beijing and Seoul. The DI asked the cab driver if he could drop by at the bakery and DVD rental shop.

* * *

Lestrade walked down to the basement that he hadn't known its existence. There were a few rooms for storage or laundry, and one of them was about three times the size of his guest bedroom. There were two treadmills, one rowing machine, one exercise bike machine, and a weight bench. There were dumbbells and jump ropes. He also found a small shower room in one corner. All the gym equipments looked unused but well maintained.

_This is better equipped than the one in the Yard_.

He made a mental note of asking Mycroft if he could use the room.

A few hours later, he heard Mycroft entering. He prepared tea and called out Mycroft's name.

"Mycroft. How's your trip? Would you like a cuppa?"

Mycroft stopped dead when he saw a gorgeous chocolate cake and the latest season DVD of Doctor Who on the table.

* * *

Three weeks later, John got a text from Lestrade.

_MH may want to see you, GL._

The doctor was punching a reply when a black car stopped right next to him.

The older Holmes looked upset for some reason. He almost flinched when the doctor said, "You look well." After a deep breath, he showed John a CCTV image of Sherlock buying boxes of nicotine patches at Boots. The older Holmes simply said,

"Well, John. It's time for a hide-and-seek game again."


	2. Chapter 2

This is after-story of "a friendly advice". Enjoy. I tried to describe the tension lingering in 221B flat after Sherlock's return. A spin-off of "Turn Left." Comments are very welcome:D

* * *

"I'm sorry."

"You're not."

"I'm very sorry."

"You are saying that because I told you to."

"I am apologizing exactly in the way you want."

"You still don't get it, right? You don't understand sentiment."

John took a deep breath, trying desperately not to lose it. His shoulder tensed; the fists balled tight. The detective said with an exasperated look.

"Sentiment... It's a big disadvantage. It's your weakness, John."

"Sherlock, you said you missed London… That's sentiment. You are not a machine."

Sherlock Holmes couldn't dispute John's words. It was true: he did miss John. If John and the others hadn't been so important, he would neither have jumped nor spent 17 months in hiding. However, he had brainwashed himself that he was a "senseless" brainy detective with keen eyes all his life! Apology? If it was not to solve a case, he shouldn't waste his time for such trivia.

"The thing that you misunderstand as sentiment. It helped me to focus on the job. I desired to come back faster. That was practical and efficient. See, John? What's the problem?"

That was the last straw. It took lots of self-control not to punch him: John should've done so long ago. Last night at a pub, Inspector Dimmock told John and Lestrade that he had never imagined Sherlock's verbal abuse could go worse: well, it did.

"That's the problem."

John grabbed his jacket, picked up his mobile, and walked towards the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"Out! I STILL need some air!"

Sherlock paced the room, seething while turning over every stone to find the patch. John had changed. He often lost his temper: it was no easy job to live with the new irritability in his friend. The sleuth admitted it: he made John watch his fall and John may well remain angry. The doctor knew that he had faked his death, yet it didn't relieve the feeling of betrayal. Two years passed since the sleuth jumped from the building. People get less patient as they age, but John? After two years? He was still in his early forties. John that Sherlock remembered was more humorous and tolerant. The sleuth sat on his armchair and closed his eyes. He might feel better if he got into the "mind-palace."

John was walking in the park. Hyde Park…he used to frequent the place to forget the scandal and the bloody reporters. Sherlock "died" in the fraudulent scandal and there were reporters harassing the "blogger" to the extreme. It took about a year to clear Sherlock's name. When everything got too burdensome, the doctor used to visit one of the Royal parks, and Hyde Park was his favorite. It was a bright day in early summer: Roses blossomed, embroidering the lawn with pink and red; breeze caressed the visiting Londoners and tourists. John sat on a bench and looked blankly at the children that passed by. Laughter. Babbling. Twinkling eyes... Their purity and innocence helped the doctor to calm down. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

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It started over nothing... Back from Diogenes club, John had searched the flat thoroughly, especially his usual places, and collected all the nicotine patches. After a moment of hesitation, he donated the patches in a nearby homeless shelter, all of them, not leaving even one inside the skull. Okay, he admitted it, a wrong timing on his side. Sherlock was already in foul mood; Mycroft must have called him.

Last night, Lestrade talked about the "help" from Sherlock: Greg's life had become less boring. Mycroft couldn't resist Doctor Who series: the two had finished the new Who series and was thinking of starting the old Who. Though dialogue was sporadic, they had enjoyed more sweets and less exercise for three weeks.

John was typing the new entry, the first one since Sherlock's comeback: wording had to be selected carefully. With a bang, the door shut: Sherlock's stomping was a bad omen. He threw away his coat and lay on the sofa, pouting and frowning.

"What's up, Sherlock?"

John's heart was pounding already; he tried to put on nonchalant face as much as possible.

"Mycroft... I was just helping out!"

"Helping your brother? You'd better explain, Sherlock."

John's voice was rather incredulous.

"I was helping him to find more fun in his boring, quaint life!"

"What's this all about?"

John got really curious. Mycroft looked very upset yet he didn't elaborate. According to Lestrade, the older Holmes was supposed to see the Queen this morning - a monthly tea-time with her Majesty. Something must have happened at Buckingham Palace. Why did Mycroft show him the CCTV picture of Sherlock buying nicotine patches? He must have known that John would confiscate every nicotine patch at the flat.

"Her Majesty mentioned the significance of staying healthy and fit before they finish their first cup of tea."

John could picture Mycroft's face at that moment. He chuckled and Sherlock's lips twitched a little.

"and?"

"Mycroft wanted me to take a walk with him every night from today! He said he has gained five pounds since... I advised Lestrade."

Amused, John muttered out,

"Exercise? Mycroft?... Wait. Did he get angry at Greg?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Not my problem."

"Sherlock!"

"Mycroft won't kill him. Don't worry. He's blaming only me."

Sherlock walked to his bedroom. John knew what was coming. Soon drawers were open and shut. His clothes flew from the wardrobe to the floor. Duvet and pillows were thrown away. Before John asked what the matter was, the detective was already out. John pretended to concentrate on typing.

"John, I know what you've done."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock searched his "usual" places in the sitting room; lastly he strode to the fireplace and flipped the skull. None. A shout of frustrated anger rang in the room. John kept typing, trying to ignore his flatmate.

"Even not here? You took them all?"

He jumped into the bin. His long arms swung inside the bin to find the non-existent nicotine patches. He growled,

"I need some now!"

"No, cold turkey. The agreement is still valid! I had bribed everyone within 3 mile radius not to sell you any."

"Uhgh! 3 miles! I shouldn't have come back! I smoked as much as I liked..."

Snap... John's fingers stopped punching the keys. The doctor closed his eyes. 17 months. Sherlock had a reason to "go away", but it had been difficult to everybody. The scandal and reporters 24 hours around the flat. The only reason John had put up with all the "confirmed bachelor" rumors and harassment was to make Sherlock's "death" believable. One sniper remained evasive and they had to be careful. He also led an "I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES" campaign to restore the honor of his friend.

John stood up slowly and faced the detective, who was still looking for nicotine patches in the kitchen. The usual calm evaporated; feeling roiling anger, John said through gritted teeth.

"Say that again?"

Sherlock stopped moving. A thick silence fell inside the flat briefly; his face changed instantly. He stood up, scratched his head, and put on a troubled "innocent" look. John snapped shut his laptop.

"I mean... "

"Greg could've gotten killed. It could've been me. Sherlock, we all suffered while you were away, praying for your safe return."

Sherlock stared at John without blinking. John gave a final warning.

"Don't dare to say it's useless sentiment. I thought you had changed. We all were so moved when Mycroft deduced why you jumped!"

The detective washed and dried his hands. He uttered out a very emotionless apology.

"Sorry."

"That's not an apology."

The lack of nicotine patch was driving the sleuth up the wall: he used to smoke a couple of packs every day since he left. He growled in defiance,

"That's me, John. Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel. All right? Moriarty had burnt my heart."

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It was almost six o'clock. John realized he had dozed off for a long time. He stretched up, yawned, and stood up: he was sleepy, hungry, and thirsty. He fumbled in his pocket for a wallet...nothing: he might've left it at the flat. He put his hand into the other pocket for his mobile... empty. He did remember picking up his mobile from the table before he left. He walked to the Freeman drinking fountain and drank water to quench his thirst. He decided to walk back to flat.

* * *

Sherlock fidgeted. He could swear he had never felt this level of anxiety. For a couple of hours he had tried to stay in his mind palace, reviewing 243 types of tobacco ashes or analyzing soil types in London's public parks. He did need "distractions" yet John's burst of anger was so disturbing.

_It's quite annoying to live with a short-tempered flatmate._

Sighing, the detective took out his mobile and started to text John every five minutes.

_- Apology. Out of milk. SH-_

_- Sincere apology. Out of jam. -SH-_

_- I'm so sorry. Botched experiment. Fire in the kitchen. -SH-_

_- Forgive me. Loo flooded again. -SH-_

No reply. Something was off: a normal John would've replied on the third text no matter what. Hesitating for about ten more minutes, he sent the last text that had never failed.

_- I'm starving. Can't find food. -SH-_

Still there was no answer. John usually replied, _"Go and find Mrs. Hudson."_ or _"Refrigerator. Lasagna leftover."_ Sherlock tried calling instead of texting. No answer. After three calls, Sherlock started to feel anxious. His heart beat little too fast and his stomach got the uncomfortable knot. He called Lestrade, knowing that the DI would feel taken advantage of. As expected, the DI didn't sound happy yet he promised to call the Yard.

Sherlock walked upstairs: John's bedroom. There might be some clues as to his schedule today. His eyes fleeted through the simply furnished room: a tidy room for a soldier. Closet, drawers, side table, bed... Nothing was missing. Lastly he checked out below the bed. There was something new, a pale blue box that he had never seen. Sherlock opened its lid.

Soon his hands trembled: he gazed inside for a long time. There were hundreds of letters. Most of them were from those who supported John's "I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES" campaign. Mycroft had mentioned it as a tactic to make his suicide more believable. John had staged a protest with a few supporters every day, rain or shine, for a year in front of New Scotland Yard until his name got cleared. Some of his homeless network guys yellow-sprayed "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" in the streets of London. He had deleted it for his mind had been too occupied in destroying and apprehending Moriarty's associates. Newspaper scraps… mails... John had kept them all under his bed. Sherlock felt an unfamiliar nervousness. He almost regretted the earlier outburst: John had every reason to take away the patches. He put away the box back to its place.

Still no clues to whereabouts of his flatmate. Pacing around the room, he tried to dismiss "worst" scenarios. John could've lost his wallet…but his mobile? Sherlock was about to call his brother when someone knocked the door downstairs. He could hear Lestrade's voice. Sherlock's face turned ashen: something was wrong, otherwise Lestrade wouldn't be here. Before the DI ran upstairs, Sherlock started putting on his clothes fast.

"John's mobile and wallet were found at Paddington Station. One of the bins... Only cash were stolen. No fingerprints."

Sherlock's face hardened. He ran outside with Lestrade and took a cab to the station.

_He'll be fine. Don't panic. Sherlock. Think. Paddington Station. Why there? By any chance was there any left associate of Moriarty? _

He couldn't remember how he ended up there, but he found himself staring at the CCTV recordings from the time that John left the flat. The station security officer said to Lestrade and Donovan.

"We don't have CCTV inside the toilet - privacy. Only outside the door. Anyone could've trashed the wallet and the mobile into the bin without looking suspicious."

Among the people in the station, there was no one that looked like John. It just didn't feel real. The detective had never been wretched like this. If only he hadn't pushed John. He should not have said it. He flipped the wallet and checked the broken mobile. No leads what so ever. After an hour of useless search for clues, Sherlock returned to his flat, feeling nauseous.

He looked up the flat; the light of the flat was turned on. Sherlock felt a flicker of hope. He ran upstairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's greetings.

* * *

John was wolfing down crumpets in the kitchen.

"Hellu."

The doctor mumbled, while chewing and swallowing. Sherlock stopped dead, feeling his hackles rise. His voice trembled in relief and anger.

"Where have you been?"

"Hyde Park."

"We thought you had been mugged. Your wallet and mobile were found in Paddington station."

John's look of puzzlement turned appreciative.

"I've lost them. Someone must have stolen them while I dozed off in the park. I walked all the way back home."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He sat opposite to John and drank water.

"You didn't eat a bite today. Here, have some."

John slid a dish of crumpets and poured tea.

"John. I was…"

Sherlock's voice was hesitant. Before he said anything else, the doctor cut in. Sherlock's face was so transparently honest.

"Apology accepted, Sherlock. I'm sorry that I worried you."

With a weak smile, Sherlock picked a crumpet and took a bite. Suddenly the doorbell rang. There was a parcel to John Watson. At 7:30? Curiously, the doctor took the box upstairs and opened it. There was a new model of i-phone 5 in the box with a memo and an envelope of cash.

_Sorry for your mobile. Cash returned. -MH-_

John was looking at the phone, totally puzzled. A new text alert beeped on the i-phone.

_Sorry for the inconvenience.–MH-_

"Mycroft"

The two men said at the same time in awe and exasperation. Sherlock's phone alerted the incoming text.

_We're even. Speaker's corner, Hyde Park at 8:30. -MH-_

* * *

Thanks for the grammar tip...-such redimentary mistake :(

:) As I said, English is my second language so any tips to make my story better are very appreciated:) including Britpick. This story... I had to research on Hyde park and the Royal parks... Never lived in London.. So hard:)


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